


Simpkin's Sweater

by Crabbiey



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Fluff, simpkin gets a sweater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crabbiey/pseuds/Crabbiey





	Simpkin's Sweater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus/gifts).



Simpkin was having an unremarkable day as per usual. The same old story of checking and double-checking stock, ensuring all shelves were filled and organised according to his plans of the shelves.

Flittering from shelf to shelf with his clipboard, Simpkin was examining an antique teacup, noticing its price was lower than it should have been. Had one of the other spirits been messing with the prices again or had Pinn altered the price again without telling him? Whatever the reason, Simpkin was annoyed, this messed up his whole organisation of this shelf! (Which was done from lowest to highest price)

Just as he was reaching for the price tag (someone could have been switching the price tags around to, just to annoy him), Simpkin felt that all-too-familiar sensation like his gut wanted to escape his body as fiery needles pierced it. Resigning himself with a sigh, Simpkin did little to resist as he was summoned from the ground floor of the shop...to the summoning room on the first floor.

Lazy did not even begin to define Sholto Pinn, who could rarely be bothered to give Simpkin instructions bar when he was leaving his shop. Amazingly, Pinn placed a surprising amount of trust in Simpkin in that the imp would not burn his shop down out of spite. (That had happened in the past apparently)

Simpkin’s master was standing, looking mildly irritated that he had even had to summon Simpkin. Simpkin plopped himself in the centre of his circle. He was not going to look for errors in the circle - this one had been painted years ago, was regularly repainted and never a mistake was made.

If only he could somehow scratch the wood so as to mar to painted wood… It was no use; this room was windowless, lacked a chimney and Pinn possessed the only key.

“Simpkin, look at me, not at the floor.”

“Yes, Master,” Simpkin drawled, dragging his eyes away from the floorboards to stare straight at Sholto Pinn with all the loathing frustration he could muster. (He was more annoyed at being dragged away from his task, he loathed to leave any task half-finished)

“Don’t you dare look at me like that!” Pinn snapped.

Simpkin obeyed, he didn’t really fancy another punishment. Even so, he kept his arms folded and his stature slouched.

Walking over to his desk, Pinn took his seat behind the desk and for a moment looked like he was going to mirror Simpkin’s slouch. Instead, the magician opted to lean forwards, arms folded on his desk as he pushed a sizeable, brown paper-wrapped parcel neatly in front of him.

It looked like a book, Simpkin thought, at least from this angle. Maybe it was two books? It did look rather thick. But it had that unmistakable rectangular shape. Pondering over what it was would have to wait, Pinn began to speak again.

“I have summoned you here, Simpkin, because you are going to deliver this.” Why Pinn had picked him, Simpkin could not be sure but maybe it was because the previous imp who had been designated to deliver things had ended up insulting a rather high-ranking magician, who had threatened to close Pinn down.

“I trust this task won’t be too tricky for you. That you won’t get lost. Again.”

And there was the reason why Simpkin was grateful Pinn kept Simpkin confined to the shop. Simpkin hated London, it was too noisy and disorganised. He had got lost in it more than once and had ended up in some alley whilst several spirits hissed at him.

“I will not.” This time, Simpkin would ensure to bring a map with him. And a compass.

“I hardly need your promises, they are empty after all. Fail to deliver this, or loose the item, or throw it in the Thames will result in the Stippling Fires and a month dusting, sweeping and cleaning my house.”

Simpkin nodded, his silence a bitter stab at the magician.

“Good. Now here is the address.” Sholto Pinn passed the imp a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. Even after all this time, Simpkin could still barely decipher Pinn’s handwriting.

“Do you know where to go?” Simpkin snapped out of his daze, the paper at a bizarre angle. Glancing once more at the address, reciting silently to himself, Simpkin nodded.

“Take this parcel, deliver it, and return by tomorrow morning.” A wave of his hand, and Pinn dismissed Simpkin, releasing him from the circle.

Flying over to the parcel, Simpkin mused over how best to carry this thing. Grasping the string in his taloned feet, Simpkin tried to fly only to come crashing back down against the desk.

How heavy was this thing?! Hissing in frustration, Simpkin heard a tut and caught Pinn rolling his eyes. Well then perhaps he should have picked a stronger spirit!

With a practised ease, Simpkin altered his form slightly, causing his leg muscles to grow. Satisfied he could now lift the cumbersome weight, Simpkin gave his wings a determined flap. And he was off! For about five seconds before the weight of the book acted like a pendulum and nearly sent Simpkin careering across the room. Wings beating rapidly, Simpkin was able to slow himself and turn around, eventually made his out of the room.

Pinn locked the door, not paying Simpkin any more attention as the magician took the stairs to the ground floor and left.

Making sure to collect a map (and double-checking it wasn’t that gaudy tourist map Pinn had for some reason) and compass, Simpkin exited the shop. Immediately he was confronted by the clamour of the city, the shop being excellent at guarding against the din.

It took a moment for Simpkin to adjust the bright light of day and the noise levels (the smells Simpkin preferred not to think about) before flying to the rooftops and setting the book down. He’d only had this book five minutes and already his legs were aching! How was he supposed to transport this brick around London?!

Glaring angrily at the paper, Simpkin raised his head to survey his surrounding. The sight was certainly spectacular, but not one he could exactly appreciate right now.

After comparing his map to his surroundings, Simpkin eventually located where he was. And after some more time was able to pinpoint his destination (well the street that was, the map wasn’t that detailed as to show house numbers).

Grasping the parcel, Simpkin headed off into the smokey sky, doing his best to avoid the other spirits darting about.

***

Despite having a map and compass, Simpkin still found himself lost multiple times. It was growing dark, and Simpkin was getting desperate. Nighttime meant Search Spheres floating about whilst the police prowled the streets.

His legs were growing unbearably tired too, despite pouring a decent amount of Essence into them. Lobbing this damn parcel into the Thames was becoming all the more tempting.

Pausing for a break, Simpkin once again checked first his map then the compass. After comparing the address once more, Simpkin nodded to himself. He was sure of the way now. Gathering the parcel again, Simpkin was airborne once more.

It wasn’t long before Simpkin found himself in an area with tall houses that once must have been grand. Only now they were falling into ruin. This didn’t look like typical magician neighbourhood and for a horrible moment Simpkin wondered if this was a punishment Pinn had conjured up.  
No, Simpkin worked hard at his tasks, he was rarely punished. This couldn’t be an elaborate punishment, magicians were never that creative.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Simpkin flew to the end of the street to find its name. Relief swept over him - this was the right street! Now all he had to do was find the house…

Glancing again at the address, Simpkin frowned as he checked the houses again and felt his stomach sink. Virtually all of the houses were missing their numbers. Now how was he supposed to find this house?!

Forehead crumpled in concentration, Simpkin recalled what he knew of how houses were numbered in London. It was an even number, so he would only have to look on the right-hand side of the street. It was a larger number too, meaning Simpkin could ignore these first few houses.

Skimming along, Simpkin soon found himself at the street’s literal end - it had turned into a cul-de-sac. Panicking, thinking he may have missed it, Simpkin zoomed up and down the street multiple times, looking for any sign of the house he needed.

Then a glint of bronze caught his sharp eye. There, glinting in the evening light was a dull bronze plate nailed to wall outside one of the houses. Approaching it, Simpkin squinted before making out what was inscribed there.

‘Mr. H. Button.’ A sigh of relief and a double-checking of the address proved this to be the house. Glancing beyond the wall, caused Simpkin to frown. This was far from what he had been expecting. Magicians tended to live in immaculately-maintained buildings and yet this house…. This house looked unremarkable, and hardly the abode of a magician. The walls were painted with dirt and the garden, what little there was of one, looked more like a hedge. A decidedly wide hedge.

A warm glow filtered from the curtains of the ground-floor window. Good. At least this person was here.

Fluttering up to the front door, Simpkin looked for a door knocker and instead found a doorbell. He hated these things, they were awful inventions and often broken down. Pressing it, Simpkin was somewhat alarmed to hear a distorted screech. Not only did the garden need a serious pruning but the doorbell needed replacing!

A few minutes drifted by. No response.

A few more. Still nothing

As tempting as it was just to leave the parcel here, Simpkin did not want Pinn screaming in his ear about how that was ‘improper delivery’. Residing himself to his fate, and the prospect of another magician with their nose pointed far too high at the sky. Simpkin rang the doorbell again.

No response.

More ringing on the doorbell. More screeching from within.

Still not a peep.

The dark was creeping in fast, and Simpkin never planned on staying out on London’s streets after sunset. At this point Simpkin was debating leaving the parcel on the roof or in a bush with a note nailed to the door. He may have to deal with Pinn screaming at him and the Stippling Fires. But right now that (and a month’s worth of cleaning) was far more appealing than having to sneak past the Night Police. Those wolves just delighted in making anyone’s life miserable, and they certainly did not consider spirits people.

Just as Simpkin was thinking about the best place to hide this parcel, the door finally creaked open to reveal an elderly man leaning on a walking stick. The need for it was evident - the man appeared to only have one leg. The man’s hair was unkempt as were his clothes (Simpkin wagered he hadn’t changed his clothes in days), the trousers had patches sewn into them and the cardigan he wore had several small holes in it. His clothes may have been drab, his eyes were anything but, sparkling with life.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to take quite so long! It’s a bit hard, you know, when you’re reading and suddenly the doorbell goes and you only have one leg!”

Simpkin could not reply, he was in shock. Whoever he had been expecting to open the door, it had not been this.

Chuckling at Simpkin’s surprised expression, the man tilted his head as he glanced at Simpkin’s feet and the parcel they gripped.

“Ah! You must be from Mr.Pinn!”

Somehow, Simpkin was able to nod his head. “Mr. Button?” he croaked

“That I am. Come in!” Mr. Button waved his hand.

Still at a loss for words, and more than slightly suspicious at this man’s rather friendly behaviour, Simpkin hovered. His eyes growing larger with questions as he watched the peculiar man.

Mr. Button shook his head, sighing lightly. “It’s alright, I have no reason to harm you. Pinn’d have my head if I did.”

There was truth in those words, in a way Simpkin felt silly. He had no reason to fear this old man, he was just dropping a parcel off. 

Fluttering over, still somewhat dazed, Simpkin crossed the threshold and almost immediately stopped. The entire hallway was full of books. Books in towers so high they threatened to topple over at any second. Books cascaded down the stairs, the smell of old pages and ink saturated the air.

Simpkin’s eyes had grown enormous, he had never seen so many books! And whilst this was impressive in itself, Simpkin was more in shock at the disorganised mess of it all and how some of the book towers looked ready to topple over.

What kind of magician would allow themselves to become this...unrepresentable?

Simpkin looked up at the man, a question clear on his face.

“I’ve been alive long enough to collect many books, I’m just having some storage issues,” Mr. Button explained with practiced ease, shutting the door behind him.

“This way.” He pointed with his walking stick, indicating he wanted Simpkin to enter the next room along.

Quite what this room was supposed to be, Simpkin could not fathom it out. Every inch of floor space was covered in books or loose pages. Ink bottles were everywhere, quills stuck out of odd places and paper with words so faded it was impossible to read them were scattered about. It was almost like research had been started a hundred times and abandoned.

“Just put the parcel here.” Mr. Button pointed at a table (it looked ready to collapse under the weight of several thick tomes).

Gingerly, Simpkin placed the parcel carefully on the table. For now this man was being pleasant but should Simpkin inadvertently break anything, the imp doubted he’d be hovering here much longer.

Moving backwards a bit, Simpkin’s toes throbbed as they felt like they’d been stretched several centimetres. He had been lugging that damn parcel around for so long now he could barely feel his toes. Slowly curling and uncurling his toes, Simpkin wondered if he should leave now before realising he couldn’t.

Pinn, as usual, had chosen to make his task harder than it should have been. The magician had not told him if this man had paid already.

Resigning himself to waiting here (and secretly grateful of being able to take a break), Simpkin hovered and watched, curious as to what was in the package.

The man had seated himself, and with great care, unwrapped the parcel. Nestled in the brown paper were two books. Clearly old from their faded covered and even more faded titles. Surprisingly however, they looked rather unbattered. Perhaps they had been stolen from a library, Simpkin mused half-joking. Then again, knowing Pinn, and how magicians had little care for morals, Pinn could have acquired them on the black market.

“Ah! Perfect! Sholto wasn’t exaggerating when he said they were in good condition!” The magician grinned, gently opening one of the volumes to a random page. Within lay writing Simpkin recognised as Ancient Greek. Simpkin had first been summoned during the Medieval Era, but the works of the Ancient Greek magicians were so widely read it had been one of the first languages Simpkin had learnt to read. (Being a young imp in those days, Simpkin had taken great delight in highlighting rude words and expressions he found in books.)

Curious, Simpkin hovered closer, wondering what was so important about these books. The man was clearly absorbed in his books, examining page after page. Mr. Button seemed to feel Simpkin’s eyes on him, looking up.

The imp froze, expecting a yell and yet it never came. Instead the man smiled warmly. “Oh I am sorry, look at me, leaving you hovering there whilst I read! Did you want something?”

Somehow, Simpkin found his voice, this man was being entirely sincere. He was being genuine. “I...er…” He wanted to ask if Mr.Pinn had been paid but instead the question that fell out of his mouth was. “Why do you have so many books?”

The man sighed, his happiness giving way to a more serious, forlorn expression. “The government is closing many libraries and books are going missing. I can’t just sit and watch all the knowledge be lost. So I do what I can to preserve it. The History of Magic is a fascinating topic, one we can learn a lot from.”

“You are a magician?” Simpkin had been wondering if this man was indeed a magician, he could have just been one of the upper class commoners. It was so quiet in this house, only now Simpkin had figured out why. The house was void of essence - there were no spirits here. Simpkin was more confused now than he had been five minutes ago.

“I was. Still am in a way, but I’ve largely forgone practical magic….” Mr. Button waved his hand in the general direction of his absent leg. An explanation enough, clearly he’d lost his leg through use of magic.  
Deciding not to enquire about a potentially nasty accident, no matter how curious Simpkin was. There was an awkward silence before Mr. Button asked a question Simpkin would never have predicted.

“Why don’t you help me organise the books?”

“What?” Simpkin breathed.

Mr. Button shrugged. “This place is in a terrible state, as you can see. I could rather do with the help…”

“I should be getting back…” Simpkin was wondering if this man was planning on trapping him here somehow. But then again, Mr. Button could be genuine. He didn’t seem malicious and certainly was not like any magician Simpkin had ever encountered before.

“Nonsense! I’ll pay Sholto for your time here! Besides it’s getting dark and no one likes the Night Police!”

Simpkin could hardly argue with that, besides he was itching to organise the books.

“Well we might as well start in here!” The man waved his stick around the room. Before Simpkin could say anything, Mr. Button had ventured over to the nearest pile (this one being collapsed, resembled a hill more than anything) and began tug at a book near the top.

The imp hadn’t the chance to suggest Mr. Button not do that before the elderly magician had freed the book, a plume of dust and sent about ten books sliding onto the floor.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Button spluttered, wafting the dust away.

“Maybe….Maybe if we cleared the floor first, we could organise this better?” Simpkin suggested.

“An excellent idea there! There should be some large bags in the kitchen we can put all this paper into.”

Simpkin smiled at that, no one had commended him like this before. Usually his suggestions were met with a “Yes, whatever, I don’t care Simpkin, just as long as you keep my shop organised,” from Mr. Pinn.

Excited, Simpkin zipped off, too elated to wait for directions to the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, once more overflowing with books and a mountain of dirty washing-up. Did Mr. Button have no one to help him at all?

Simpkin began to search the many drawers and cupboards, finding most of them to be stuffed with books, a large quantity of spice cake and a sizeable collection of tea. Eventually he did find one cupboard full of kitchen utensils, and just like Mr. Button had said, there were several large rubbish bags.

Grabbing the whole lot, Simpkin flew back to the room in which Mr. Button was waiting.

“Perfect!” the magician beamed, a handful of old papers in hand already, throwing them into the bag Simpkin held open.  
“I think we should gather all this old paper first then start on the books,” Mr. Button declared, gathering another handful of paper.

“I could get rid of the paper upstairs?” Simpkin suggested.

“Perfect! Leave that bag hanging on the door will you?”

Simpkin did as he was asked, hanging the bag on the door handle before exiting and flying upstairs. It was dark and even stuffier than downstairs. Putting some of his essence into a Light, Simpkin illuminated the corridor to reveal a river of papers and books inches thick.

Shaking his head, Simpkin was determined to do his best at this task. He always tried to excel at whatever he was set, it gave him a sense of pride.

The next few hours were odd, Simpkin quietly helping sort through books and clearing rubbish with this peculiar magician. But it was a good odd, Simpkin had never felt so relaxed, so at ease. Mr. Button as it turned out, was quite the talker, explaining to Simpkin about the many books he had and some of his adventures from his youth.

Any concerns Simpkin had had before entering this house had all dissolved since.

At one point Mr. Button called for a break, asking Simpkin to come with him. Slightly confused, Simpkin followed the magician back to the kitchen where Mr. Button asked for Simpkin to help him make some tea. Simpkin could not drink tea of course, nevertheless he listened with fascination to Mr. Button’s description of each tea. The way this man spoke, with such passion about things, it was hard not to find yourself drawn to his words.

A couple more hours passed (Simpkin was unsure of the time, there appeared to be no clock in this house, but Simpkin believed it was around midnight) in which Simpkin was opening up book after book (many of the names on the spines had faded beyond recognition), reciting the name of it to which Mr. Button would direct him to the pile to stack it in whilst making a note of it. 

Simpkin soon found himself stumped, the word he was faced with was unfamiliar to him.

“What is this word?” Simpkin pointed to the word, holding the book up. Mr. Button leaned across, eyes squinting as he read the title before breaking into a rather merry laugh.

“‘Knitting’. Good grief! I have a book on knitting! That shows how long some of these books have been sitting here! I thought about taking knitting up once, but….other things got in the way.”

“Research?”

“Yes!” Simpkin was unsure if Mr. Button was being entirely truthful there but he was hardly bothered about enquiring further. No, he had a different question.

“What is knitting?”

“Knitting, you know….it’s how you make mittens.”

“It is?” Despite having been around for a fair while now, Simpkin was still unfamiliar with some things humans did. Leafing through the pages, he was fascinated by all the different stitches and how you could make incredible things just from wool.

“Why don’t we knit something?” Simpkin looked up in surprise at Mr. Button’s question.

“Knit something? But I can’t knit…”

“Neither can I! Very well that is, we can learn together! I’ll be glad of the company. My last assistant was lured away by a higher salary elsewhere and finding a new assistant is proving difficult…” That would explain why this house had become so disorganised. Mr. Button continued, “I think we should start by knitting a scarf. They’re pretty simple.” 

Simpkin nodded eagerly. “A scarf would be nice.” He had no need for clothes, if he wished, he could change his Essence so it would appear as if he were wearing clothes. But the prospect of being able to make something, to be creative, it was something entirely new to him.

“If I remember I still have my knitting needles and some wool. Just need to remember where…” Mr. Button trailed off, leading Simpkin out of the room as the two began to search the house. Simpkin was beginning to wonder if perhaps he should draw a map of this house for the magician - there was so much clutter here than even after it was all organised, it would still prove tiresome to find anything.

All manner of boxes and cupboards had been open before finally Mr. Button called out in triumph.

“Here they are!” he beamed, holding a pair of knitting needles trumphantly. “Would be able to help me carry some of this stuff please?” Mr. Button nodded to the trunk he’d opened.

Simpkin nodded, flying over and peered in. More knitting needles of varying sizes were stabbed into balls of wool, the trunk absolutely full of wool.

“Pick out a pair of knitting needles for yourself and some wool you like.” Simpkin bit his lip, wondering what to choose. After some deliberation, Simpkin picked out a small pair of knitting needles and some bright green wool.

“That’s a nice colour! Let’s go back to the….oh to whatever room we were in just now!”

Keen to get started, Simpkin raced ahead of Mr. Button and patiently waited for the magician to enter the room.

He did not have to wait long, Mr. Button soon entering the room. The elderly magician seemed to moving faster as well, whether that was because of shared excitement or because the floor was actually visible, it was hard to say.

Sitting himself down, Mr. Button asked Simpkin for the book. The imp collected the book from its place on another chair, bringing it to Mr. Button who flicked it to the index. Finger scanning it rapidly, he soon found what he was after.

“Scarf...simple...page 15.” Turning to that exact page, Mr. Button showed Simpkin the instructions. “I’ll make the first couple of rows of stitches, those are always a bit tricky.”

Simpkin nodded, watching in silent fascination as Mr. Button picked up the lime green wool and his knitting needles, making the first stitch. As he made the first couple of rows, he explained repeatedly the steps he were taking, Simpkin nodding as he took it all in.

“Alright, your turn now.” Mr. Button passed the beginnings of the scarf to Simpkin and changed the needles for Simpkin’s smaller pair.

Nodding excitedly, Simpkin focused as he tried to repeat what Mr. Button had shown him. Only to falter and hiss, why wasn’t this working?!

“It’s alright, here, let me show you.” This time, Mr. Button went a lot slower, demonstrating each step. Next he had Simpkin repeat it, in the slow step-by-step manner. With each stitch, Simpkin’s pace increased and before long, Simpkin had knitted away an entire row without any guidance.

“It did it!” Simpkin exclaimed in delight, showing his work to Mr. Button.

“Indeed you did!” Mr. Button beamed. “Keep going, I’ll tell you when to stop or before you know it you’ve made a scarf ten feet long!” he laughed. “I did that once, it proved very useful in tripping up a magician I really didn’t like back in my youth.”

Simpkin snickered, now that would’ve been a sight. A grin on his face, Simpkin got back to his knitting, determined to finish this scarf before he had to go.

***

It didn’t seem like much time had passed at all, before the light of sunrise began to creep in. The pair had been deep in conversation, it was Mr. Button who first noticed the light.

“Good grief, we’ve been up all night! Well that’s something I haven’t done in a while!” he yawned, glancing down at Simpkin who looked up with a crestfallen face. The imp had completely forgotten he would not be staying here. And he absolutely did not want to go. This was the first time in his existence his work and efforts had actually been appreciate. It was the first time he had been treated like an actual person.

Mr. Button was silent for a moment, as if deep in thought.

“I would like to do this again. Perhaps we could make you a sweater?”

At that, Simpkin nodded excitedly, what a night this had turned out to be. He did not care if he arrived late, nor if Mr. Pinn was angry with him. He had had the best time in his entire existence and this certainly wasn’t going to be the last!

“Well then!” Mr. Button clapped his hands. “We’ll have to make sure you visit again!....Tell Mr. Pinn I want a weekly delivery of this ink, he should have it.” Mr. Button scrawled something down on a piece of paper before passing it to Simpkin, winking at the imp.

The imp grinned back, immediately knowing he was going to volunteer to take on these delivery duties.

“I will!”

“Good! Now let me add the final few stitches to that scarf.” So saying, Mr. Button swiftly tied the scarf off. “Here you go.” He passed the imp back the bright green scarf who looked a bit surprised.

“What? You thought I was going to keep this? Why else would I ask you pick the wool?” At that Simpkin’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was being allowed to keep it!

“Thank you…” Simpkin breathed, accepting the scarf and wrapping it about his neck.

“You are very welcome, the scarf suits you! And your company has been a delight. Now off you go, before Mr. Pinn wakes up!” Mr. Button chuckled, opening the front door.

With that, Simpkin shot upwards into the sunrise, waving goodbye to Mr. Button as he laughed quietly to himself. He could not remember the last time he had felt this joyful, if ever, but suddenly he knew what it meant to be truly happy.

***

Over the next few weeks, Simpkin snuck out, volunteering to take deliveries. Paying regular visits to Mr. Button’s house as the two completed the sweater and organised books. Before finally, one late afternoon in which Mr. Button told Simpkin another amusing tale of his, the two had added the final stitch.

“There!” Mr. Button held the sweater up proudly for Simpkin to inspect.

A smile erupted on Simpkin’s face, he could hardly contain his excitement. The two had used all sorts of wool, giving the sweater a very unique look of varying colours. And whilst it did have a bizarre pattern (and was definitely oversized), Simpkin did not care. He had made this! He had had help, but he had knitted this! 

“Why don’t you put it on?”

Nodding energetically, Simpkin tried to pull the sweater on only to find his horns getting stuck in a sleeve.

“Simpkin!” Mr. Button laughed. “Here...Let me help.”

The imp allowed the magician to extract him from the sweater before pulling it over Simpkin. This time making sure Simpkin’s head went through the neck hole and not get stuck in a sleeve.

Sweater on, Simpkin looked down and found the clothing reached his feet, the sleeves too. But that did not make, in fact, Simpkin liked it like this. It was so soft, so comforting, reassuring even. The wool tickled him, provoking a giggle from Simpkin. The comments Mr. Button had made about some wool being itchy, Simpkin could not understand - it just tickled!

“It suits you very well, Simpkin! Here, look!” Mr. Button pointed to a mirror that nestled in the corner of the room. Padding over, Simpkin stopped just in front of the mirror and admired the knitting with pride.

He had made this! He had made this and it suited him! A massive grin spread across his face as the imp turned in front of the mirror, admiring the sweater’s back. His wings fitted perfectly through the holes Mr. Button had ensured they’d made so Simpkin’s wings ‘did not get squished’.

And the colours! The entire sweater was full of bright colours, Simpkin could not decide which one he liked more. He was proud of the stitches too, having decided to have a go at a cable knit sweater, it had proved a challenge at times.

“I love it!” Simpkin yelled, jumping up and turning around to face a grinning Mr. Button.

“As you should. You’ve put a lot of hard work into that, Simpkin.”

Chest puffed up in pride, Simpkin spent the rest of the day helping Mr. Button organise more of his books and discussing what they should knit next.

But just as all his visits here had, Simpkin’s time to leave came all too soon.  
“Let’s get it wrapped up so you can get it safely back.”

Reluctantly, Simpkin nodded before carefully removing the sweater. With even greater care, he folded it up as Mr. Button produced some brown wrapping paper. Placing the sweater in the paper, Mr. Button folded the paper over and secured it with string.

“There you go.” Mr. Button passed the package to Simpkin who hugged it tight to his chest.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, my dear fellow! It’s been a pleasure.”

Mr. Button opened the door for Simpkin, who was reluctant as ever to leave. “Do come back soon, won’t you, Simpkin? We can start making that pair of mittens for you!” Mr. Button waved goodbye to the imp who returned the waves as he returned to the sky once more.

Simpkin would be sure to insist that Mr. Button still needed that ink, Mr. Pinn was rather surprised that Mr. Button was getting through that much ink a week. And Simpkin hoped dearly that Mr. Pinn would not smell a lie.

On returning to the shop, Simpkin darted in through the shop’s entrance and zoomed upstairs, into a storage room Mr.Pinn seldom visited. It was a room that only Simpkin had any use for really. After searching around, Simpkin found the perfect hiding spot - a gap between two crates.

Slipping the parcel carefully into the hiding spot, Simpkin gave the parcel a gentle pat. Smiling to himself, he began humming a happy tune. “Do come back soon, won’t you, Simpkin? We can start making that pair of mittens for you!” Mr. Button’s farewell echoed in his head. Although he had no need for mittens, Simpkin could not wait to make them.

In this world of twisted morals and cruel magicians, it was something of miracle that a compassionate one could be found. Simpkin had never had a friend before, but he instinctively knew that Mr. Button was what he would call a friend.


End file.
